


Don't You Dare Forget the Sun

by KNarcissus



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Disassociation, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Heavy Angst, Human Experimentation, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Song fic, Spideypool Big Bang 2020, Unethical Experimentation, Whump, scott summers is tired of wades bullshit, wade wilson is a goof ball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29274261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KNarcissus/pseuds/KNarcissus
Summary: “Cold white walls, keep you from your pad and penYou just wanna stab againI can't believe it's half this hardYou never knew your mind was dark, no!"Peter Parker, self-proclaimed superhero and honestly a nice guy, finds himself locked within the confines of a top-secret definitely not legal medical facility. Maybe it was the kicks to his head, or possibly the chains that kept him hogtied in the back of the vehicle, or even the horrible experimentation was done to his body but something tells him that he is in a No Good Very Bad Place.Not that he can really feel much of the pain anymore. He didn’t realize he was falling perfectly in place for these doctors' nefarious plans and now he can’t think much of anything anymore. He’s following orders. He’s here for Shield, right? The doctors tell him he’s doing good. He’s amazing. He’s Their perfect soldier and Peter can’t help but say yes to everything asked of him.
Relationships: Peter Parker & X-Men Team, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	Don't You Dare Forget the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, everyone, that helped me get my first fanfiction up and completed! I want to thank the wonderful Mods of the SPBB for being so patient with me and my absolutely awesome artist Zet for creating some beautiful [art](https://spideypool-art.tumblr.com/post/642505724566618112/this-is-the-art-masterpost-for-the) for this piece. As well as my local friend Zoey for Beta reading and reminding me that not every detail has to be included haha.

All Peter could hear was his erratic heart pounding in his ears. He could feel his breath coming out in short bursts as the panic shot through him like a bolt of lightning. After the 13 years of being Spider-man, he’s had his fair share of near-death experiences. Yet never has his spider-sense reacted so strongly as it is now.  
He moves on instinct. His blood pumping and sweat dripping, he falls to the floor of his apartment as a dart whizzes by where his head was mere milliseconds before. It landed with a thunk, embedding itself into the far wall. Peter only had a moment to stare before his senses went off again, this time encouraging him to launch himself up onto the ceiling. Another dart is lodged into his floorboards. Peter skitters quickly to the window where the darts have been shot from only for his door to go flying in a thousand shards from across the room.  
He could hear the neighbors in adjacent rooms shout in shock. He could hear the sounds of light switches turning on and the pounding of footsteps from across the hall. And he could hear the resounding gunshots as civilians are killed in order to capture the friendly neighborhood Spiderman.  
***  
Maybe it was the drugs pumping through his bloodstream, or maybe it was that kick straight to the head but Peter is really having an awful time concentrating. Actually, now that he thought about it, it is _probably_ the boot against his neck holding him down to the cold metal floor of the truck. The restriction is just working wonders on keeping him still. Every bump in the road feels like he is being thrown around like a ragdoll. Which, he remembers fondly, totally happened a few hours ago.  
Has it been hours? At this point, Peter’s not sure about anything anymore. He remembers hearing the dead silence of the road when he first woke up, the only sound was the heavy breathing of his captors and the rumbling of the vehicle. Definitely not in New York anymore. Everything has been foggy up till now. So really, it could be any amount of time. Has it been days? That wouldn’t make sense. Drugs have such a hard time staying in his system; color Peter impressed they even worked at all.  
He couldn’t hear, he could more feel the man talking. The boot at his neck vibrated irregularly. It differed from the now consistent movement of the truck. Was he talking to Peter? Everything felt upside down and backward. He felt numb and different. Maybe the road isn’t actually silent. Maybe he’s still in New York and the walls of the truck have some sort of stifling tech that keeps outside noise _outside_. But why can’t he hear the man speaking? He could feel his own heartbeat pick up. Something’s different. His spider-sense feels nonexistent. Where's the tingle at the back of his neck?  
He could feel the boot press harder against his jugular. _Since when have I been on my side?_ A stronger vibration struck near his face. Was there another man? He remembers exactly thirteen people in his apartment at the time of the attack. But how big is the truck? Can you fit thirteen people in here? In fact, Peter’s not even sure they’re in a truck.  
He listened closely. He feels like his head is underwater and his ears are stuffed with cotton. Why can’t he hear? _Focus. Focus_. He’s trying to put together too many pieces at once. His mind is simultaneously moving too fast and too slow at the same time. _There’s too much going on_. Another strike near his face made him gasp. He could feel the stomp travel along the metal flooring. His breath was coming out in short bursts. _I can’t breathe!_ The pressure at his neck was growing in strength, the bones in the man’s ankle creaked with the shift in weight. The tread of the boot rolled along Peter’s skin and made him recoil in pain. _Someone’s shouting!_  
Maybe it is the strong accent, or maybe it is the wind shearing along the front of the truck, that keeps him from understanding his captor. The strike against his face shocked him. Peter gasped and struggled underneath the boot. He spread out his arms only to find them restricted and tied ( _chained?_ ) to the floor. He could feel himself screaming, he could feel the breath leaving his mouth and the movement of his face. He kicked out his legs and pushed up against the building pressure on his neck. Nothing worked, he’s stuck. Every movement is stopped by _something_.  
But then the boot lifted and Peter gasped for air. He could feel the blood rushing up to his head. His neck throbbed and his whole body shook. He could hear the men speaking, quickly, their words were clipped and in another language. Then, a needle pressed against his neck, and his thoughts dwindled down to a soft hum before Peter faded into unconsciousness.  
The next time Peter woke up he was somewhere different. He can feel fabric tied tightly across his eyes. _Has that always been there?_ The boot at his neck was gone, replaced with a metal brace of some sort. It’s like a neck pillow, but made of metal and not pillowy at all. It restricted his movement, Peter can’t even open his mouth. Not that he would, his face felt like jello. As if someone put muscle relaxer all over him. Which now that he thinks about it, is a horrible analogy.  
Peter can tell he was in a different vehicle. He can’t feel wheels moving underneath him but Peter can tell they were in fact moving. The telltale sign that his captors and himself are in a plane. Which, to be totally honest, _scared the shit out of Peter_. He could be anywhere in the world at this point. No one could help him. How long has he been out? Does anyone know that he’s been missing? These people raided his whole apartment building, it had to have made it to the news. SHIELD may already be on it since they know Peter is in fact Spiderman.  
Peter is Spiderman. It didn’t really feel like it right now. Here he is, hogtied and chained like a dog. He has fought so many evil villains, aliens, and just bad average people. But he couldn’t hold off thirteen men in his own apartment. Not only that, but innocent people, who just so happened to live in Peter Parker’s apartment building _died_ because someone wanted him that badly. And the fact of the matter is, if his captors were this open about kidnapping Peter, that means he will never be found. They know they can take him somewhere no one will ever expect. And Peter will be trapped until he’s dead.  
The third time Peter woke up gasping. He was being strangled. He can feel the hands around his neck and the fingernails digging into his skin. He is plunged into a basin of water and could taste the copper in his blood as he took mouthful after mouthful of the rancid water.  
No, that isn’t right. He woke up the third time from a nightmare of drowning. The brace around his neck keeps him from gasping and he struggles to make out his surroundings. Everything is dark and the floor is still cold. It has been seeping into his bones and he can’t keep his body still enough to not shake. He can still taste the water from his dream and it made him feel sick. He can’t feel his fingers and toes anymore.  
He is also back on the road. The tires screeched at every break and Peter lurched forward at every stop. The restraints to his arms and legs pull him taunt, arching his back and causing his clothes to snag on loose pieces of metal on the floor. His brain is sluggish and he keeps trying to lick his lips only to remember the thick collar around his neck. A cramp has sprung up along the underside of his foot and with each bump in the road, it flares in pain. He can tell his ribs are at the very least bruised. Every breath sends a flash of white-hot fire up his sternum. Nothing about this situation was even remotely comfortable, not that Peter expected it to be. At this point, he can barely even put in the energy to worry about where he’s going to end up.  
There seem to be more men sitting around him this time. Though Peter lost count after four. Their breath seemed fast, at least compared to Peter’s steady breathing and they spoke quietly to each other. It feels like their speech is going in one ear and out the other. Nothing made sense and Peter gave up trying to listen in.  
Suddenly the truck came to stop and all the men went silent. They held their breath as the back doors were thrown open and light blasted Peter’s eyes, even through the blindfold. He could hear the crunching of shoes against gravel and a woman speaking in another language. Everything felt surreal. The van bounced as one by one the men stepped out and the woman greeted each individually. Peter couldn’t catch their names.  
Someone yanked his restraints and began unlocking them. Peter’s body moved limply with the chains. He felt weak and tired, and so very cold. The sun was too bright and in a moment of madness, he wanted to thank whoever put the blindfold on him.  
Nothing is making sense anymore. One moment Peter is in the van, the next he's on the ground with gravel in his hands and against his cheek. The woman is shouting commands and Peter is being put on a stretcher. _Am I being rescued?_ Maybe SHIELD found him and he’s being taken to get his wounds treated.  
The white hospital walls pass him and the stench of bleach and sickness makes Peter’s head hurt. The weight of the chains makes his arms dangle over the side of the stretcher, and Peter can not lift them up.  
The elevator doors close him in a dimly lit cab and the cords lowering him and his companions down screech and echo down the shaft. The collar around his neck restricts him from looking in any direction but up but he knows there are three people around him.  
The click of the woman's heels against the linoleum hallway outside of the elevator bounces around the concrete walls. Peter must be in a basement. The cool and clammy humidity clings to his brow and makes the collar feel sweaty.  
In the next room, doctors swarm around him, poking and probing his ribs and his face. In the mirrored ceiling Peter sees blood and needles. He watches the doctors chat happily while opening a cut in his leg. Peter’s eyes look bloodshot and his hands seem to be going a little blue. The collar has a bright red light at the front and has no visible seams.  
He can’t feel the doctors stitching his leg up. He can’t feel them pushing his shoulder back into its socket or wrapping his chest up. He can taste the blood dripping from his nose as they re-break it and put it back in place.  
Peter thinks of that one time when battling a group of grave robbers at night back in Queens. One of them had a strong punch that smashed his nose and dislocated his jaw. When Peter made it home he had to slam his nose back in place as it had already healed crooked during the trip back. He sees himself smile in the mirror.  
***  
Peter was in a bed. Not a stretcher, not a van, not even a plane. He was in a good old fashioned bed. It had a sheet and everything. He could feel the metal bed frame bars jutting uncomfortably into his back. It could be better described as a cot. The chains at his feet and hands were gone and the collar at his neck was much thinner and allowed movement. He opened his mouth for the first time in what felt like months and stretched his feet and cracked his knuckles.  
His head feels like it was rammed into a mountain face of pure stone. His eyes are foggy but his thoughts more so. Despite being locked in what looked like a stereotypical isolation chamber in a nuthouse from the ’50s Peter couldn’t quite work himself up to freak out. It seemed like the perfect environment to go absolutely apeshit and throw a tantrum but his muscles felt heavy, and despite just waking up Peter really felt the callings of a nap.  
Getting abducted by strange men in riot gear and traversing what could easily be multiple continents was absolutely exhausting and Peter was just _not having it right now_. His hand brushed along the stitched incision on his thigh, it throbbed slightly. He pressed along the seam and felt it flare in pain. It reminds him of when he was younger and used to poke at his bruises from Gym class. He would get a lot of those.  
The room smelt funny, and despite his spider-sense seeming to still be out of commission he could feel the hairs at the back of his neck raised. Goosebumps covered his arms and legs and the air tasted like metal. There’s an electrical current somewhere. He's felt it before while battling Electro. The collar crackled and shocked him lightly every few moments.  
To the right of him, a long mirror covers the wall just like ones found in police interrogation rooms. Very obviously a two-way mirror. In each corner of the room were thin sheets of glass with blinking red lights behind them. Peter assumes those are cameras. A toilet, not too dissimilar to airplane toilets, sat in the right corner, just before the mirror begins. His cot was along the left wall, with a vault-like door directly in front of him.  
He knows he is underground. He remembers the elevator and the concrete walls and can taste the moisture in the air. He can hear loud vents from outside the room pumping in the fresh air. Despite this, the room still felt muggy. Peter can smell the metallic notes of what he presumes is blood, along with a strong stench of bleach, but he doesn’t notice any blood other than a few drops crusted along his thigh.  
Other than the vents, Peter cannot hear any outside noises. To be fair, his ears feel like they’ve been filled with cotton, but usually, his super sense can work out _something_. In fact, now that he thinks of it, All of his senses seem… _off_. Peter knows he's working off a nasty drug hangover and was just kidnapped and taken miles away underneath an absolutely terrifying stupor of blunt force trauma and tranquilizers but this felt different. His sight is blurry from being asleep and out of it for so long, but the usual _Twilight_ seeing dust motes clarity isn't there. In fact, it reminds him of his past days of wearing glasses. The bed is itchy and uncomfortable, _yes_ , but he knows that before all this he’d be able to feel each fiber of the sheet picking against his skin.  
Something is very very wrong. And yes, getting taken and drugged and waking up in a very frightening facility is _wrong_ but there is something else.  
Peter sits up. His legs are wobbly and his vision swims but he _sits up_. The metal bars holding up the cot are shiny and clean, not a spot of rust in sight. Peter grips onto the edge and tries with all his might to make a dent in it. Any other time he would be able to crush it easily, like an empty soda can under a boot. But this time, this time he can’t. The bar doesn’t creak or groan under the pressure and the metal doesn’t crinkle. When he takes his hand off the bar nothing is different. His palm is red from the force but the metal looks just as shiny and dent free as before.  
Now, Peter isn't particularly known for his freakouts. But after living with superpowers and being Spiderman for years the idea of him not having that anymore is _terrifying_. His hands shook and he stood up, quickly. The pacing began soon after. It seemed that someone was watching him, however, as the mirror went see-through. The once purely reflective surface now showed the room hidden behind it. A man stood there in front of an old microphone that reminded Peter of his high school's old PA system.  
“Peter Parker, do not be alarmed.” He was standing in front of many blinking lights and switches. Labels were stuck underneath them, unreadable from where Peter stands.  
“Where am I!” Peter’s voice shook, “who are _you_.”  
“No worries Mr. Parker. I’m sure everything is very frightening right now. But I promise you I am not a threat, and you are safe.” Peter scoffed and strode in front of the window. He glared up at the mysterious man.  
“If I’m safe, why was I drugged and _kidnapped?_ ” The man looked down at Peter, pity in his voice as he responded,  
“ I know it is hard to believe, but you are here to keep you and your family safe. I’m an agent from SHIELD, and there was a breach in security,” the man explained. He pulled up a chair and sat at the mic. “Someone hacked into our databases and accessed the secret identities of you and many other superhumans.” Peter listened on, apprehensive.  
“We realized too late whose information was stolen and they had already sent out secret operatives into your apartment complex. Toxic gas was released into the building, poisoning you and the others there. We had sent men to get you out but by the time we got there you were already being attacked.”  
“The toxins have worked their way into your body and affected your cognitive skills. It causes severe auditory and visual hallucinations. Our men had to knock you out in order to keep you from resisting.”  
“But what about my neighbors, I heard them being killed! They’re innocent people!”  
“Any gunshots you heard were from dart guns. I’m sure you saw a few of them. They cause people to pass out and leeches the toxins from their bodies. I promise you, no one but enemies was harmed.”  
Peter began to pace again. “Then why am I in here? Why not just take me on base? Why take me out of state and lock me in a cell, then?”  
The man chuckled sadly, “The poison in the air of your apartment effects mutates differently than average humans. After time, yes it can harm them, but to you? It's practically radioactive. We have no idea what sort of chaos it can cause in you. We have to keep you contained until we figure out a safe way to remove it.”  
“You’re telling me… that someone hacked SHIELD, found where I lived, _poisoned the entire building and everyone inside_ , and you guys didn't figure it out until they tried to kill me?”  
“To be fair Mr. Parker, it was all within twenty-four hours.”  
Peter let out a harsh laugh, “I want to talk to Director Fury.”  
“That can’t happen, Peter-”  
“Why not?” Peter pounded the glass, “Why the fuck can I not talk to Fury?”  
“ _Because_ , Mr. Parker, this is a security breach. Your safety and the directors' safety is our biggest concern right now. If you contacted him, it would put everyone at risk.”  
Peter’s breathing was rapid, his hands clenched and he could feel sweat dripping down his face. He pulled against the collar around his neck, he felt like he was going to be sick.  
“And this... This thing?” Peter grasped the collar dramatically, “What's this all about?”  
“It… restricts your powers. Only to keep you and others safe!” The man proclaimed, “If the toxins cause more hallucinations you could lash out and hurt someone, or even yourself. We’d rather you didn’t have super strength if that happens.”  
Peter nods, his gaze distant and thoughtful. “One last thing.”  
“Go ahead.” He motions to Peter to continue.  
“Is my Aunt safe?”  
“Yes Peter, she is safe.”  
***  
As the days pass Peter can feel his body fighting with the poison flowing through his veins. The doctors here have to wear hazmat suits to avoid contact, and food is passed to him via a slot in the center of the door. He feels weaker than he ever has, even before he received his powers. He hears the tell-tale ring of the alarm at the door. The slot opens and a tray is set out on the ledge.  
Maybe it was the screeching of the metal on metal when the slot opened, or maybe it was the rancid smell of mildew and bleach that has given Peter a permanent headache, but something set him off. He reached for the tray and threw it across the room. The food sprayed across the mirror and the tray clanged obnoxiously against the flooring. He could hear the guard on the other side speaking quickly into his radio requesting backup. Peter thrust his arm through the slot and grabbed the man's arm, pulling it through. With a simple push, the guard's arm bent awkwardly and a snap echoed in the room. He let out a blood-curdling scream and suddenly Peter was back.  
He let go of his arm and took a shaky breath. This entire body thrummed with adrenaline. People are running towards his cell, and the guard is cursing in the hallway. The door buzzed, letting multiple armed men in who brought Peter to the ground, restricting his arms behind his back. Peter’s chin pushed uncomfortably against the collar at his neck and he felt dirt against his cheek. He feels a mask placed onto his face and the world fades black.  
Peter comes to on a hospital bed. His hands and feet have been tied down, allowing little movement. The collar is still tight around his neck. He can feel himself panicking again, his arms strained against the leather straps and his feet banged against the metal table beneath him.  
“Hey now, Mr. Parker. No need to get all worked up.” A woman in green scrubs stood next to him, cleaning a steel tool.  
“Where am I?” Peter spoke, his breath leaving him in short intervals between his teeth. He can’t seem to unclench his jaw.  
“You had a moment of… Let us say, instability. The toxins in your blood seem to be causing aggressive outbursts. You broke a man's arm, you know?” The woman chuckled lightly, not looking up from the tool in her hand.  
“It seems to be getting worse I’m afraid. Though SHIELD’s scientists are the best, I’m certain they will work out a way to get you all cleaned up.” The doctor put the tool down, which Peter now notices is a scalpel.  
“I'm Dr. Shay, by the way. Unfortunate that we have to meet like this. I'm a big fan of your work.” Peter laughs at that, loosening his muscles a fraction.  
“I'm Peter, Peter Parker. And it's nice to meet you.” Dr. Shay smiles down at him.  
“Well Mr. Parker, we’re going to do some standard tests today. We need to make sure that everything is in working order after having to sedate you.” Dr. Shay pulls up another leather strap and secures it across Peter's forehead. His heart races and he begins to push against the restraints again.  
“What tests? Why are you strapping me down?” He balls his fist and attempts to pull free unsuccessfully.  
“Like Mr. Faust told you on your first day here, the toxins in your body cause unknown effects to those of your… build. No one is certain what it can do to your body, and how it reacts to outside interference like anesthesia. So, we must do this the old fashioned way.”  
Peter rears up and kicks out. He has to get away from here, why would SHIELD do this to him? He’s not safe. He will _die_ on this table.  
He watches the scalpel as it is lowered to his chest, right above his heart. It thumps loudly against his ribcage and his blood thrums in his ears. The first incision burns on its way down. A fiery brand across his bare chest. He can feel the skin separating cleanly, following the path the blade creates. He screams the memory of the guard from earlier crosses his mind. The scalpel lifts up and is pushed down again, deeper and deeper and Peter screams louder and louder. The whole table shakes from Peter.  
Dr. Shay places a gloved hand to his sternum and holds him steady and she continues further and further down. The scalpel is replaced with a hand saw and Peter lets out another round of screams as he watches her switch it on. He can feel his blood pooling beneath his back. Everything goes numb after that. Peter watches her, from what feels like across the room. She removes a rib. Then another. And pokes around inside his chest. He’s not sure how he is even alive anymore. Maybe he is dead. Maybe he is simply a ghost, watching his corpse gets experimented on like an animal. He watches as a huge needle is brought to his left lung and he can feel his chest stutter and stop for a moment. The replacement of his ribs came soon after. Then the stitches. He watched as his body heaved left and right along the table.  
A guard was brought in to help undo the binding and carry him out of the room. Dr. Shay was left alone to clean up the mess.  
The following days passed in a blur. Peter's skin was thin as paper, it was dry and itchy all over. His chest and leg are bright red and the stitches stuck out and caught against the fabric of his clothes. There was a constant chill in his room now. Maybe winter has begun and the heating hasn’t kicked in. Or maybe Peter has lost what little body fat he’s had and can’t keep himself from shivering. Everything hurt and ached.  
When the guards open the door he walks with them willingly. They walk through the twisting, blank hallways until they reach a simple wooden door. At least it looks simple. The guard to Peter's right steps forward and opens a compartment against the wall. In it, a scanner's red lasers swipe across his face and eyeball. The door opens with an audible click. The inside is huge. The ceiling spans upwards of fifty feet, sound-canceling insulation running along its rounded top. The walls are made of the same concrete as the rest of the facility but shelving and file cabinets line the walls. Desks sit in a grid formation to the left side of the room, and an elevated floor with metal railings covers the right.  
In the center sits a chair Peter has never seen before. Two lights extended to the sides of it, and a claw of machinery wrapped wide around the headrest. The legs and arms of the chair had grooves to hold the required limbs, with thick metal clamps ready to fold across the tops of them. Tubing and cables run up and down the entire centerpiece.  
Nothing felt good about the chair.  
“Ah! There you are, Mr. Parker!” The man from the window, whom Peter now knows is named Mr. Faust, steps down from the right side to stand in front of him. The guards at Peter’s sides take a few steps back and station themselves near the door.  
Peter only looks up wearily and blinks.  
“Ahem, you’ll be glad to know that we have figured out a way to remove the poison from you.” Faust smiles brightly, if not a little forced, and motions towards the chair. “If you’ll just take a seat we can get this finished promptly.” Peter is guided towards the chair, he can’t help the spike of anxiety that runs down his back. The cool metal of the chair sends a chill through his whole body.  
Faust lifts his arms and places them lightly into the armrests. The clamps close around his entire forearm. Then comes the clamps along his chin. He hears the pneumatic tubes release as the machinery above his head tilt down and clasp the sides of his face. The entire back of the chest tilts back ever so slightly, causing the lights to glare into his eyes. Peter squints up at Faust.  
“Now, Peter. This machine here is going to leech the toxins out of your body. At this point, it has rooted itself into your bloodstream, embedded as deep as your bones.” Faust walks back up to the right side of the room. There Peter notices Dr. Shay and a few others standing with clipboards waiting.  
“I know it is going to hurt, and for that, I truly do apologize Peter.”  
Peter coughs before speaking, “Are you sure this will fix me?” His voice rasped from disuse.  
“That, we are certain of.”  
“Then go ahead.”

Peter remembers a time from when he was just a kid. Aunt May had made her famous Christmas ham and Uncle Ben had just gotten home from work. He remembers their laughter and he remembers how warm Uncle Ben's hugs were. He had watched as Uncle Ben swung Aunt May in a circle and gave her a light kiss under the mistletoe as _White Christmas_ played softly. You could feel the love and the magic in the air, as cliche as that is. It’s one of Peter’s favorite memories. And one he will forget.  
The pain is immeasurable. Each time Peter thinks of Aunt May a wild surge of white-hot fire ravages his insides. As images of Uncle Ben come in and out of focus an icy cold shock of fear erupts and freezes off all his fingers and toes. He’s dying he has to be. Peter is literally watching his life flash before his eyes and he’s certain he won't make it this time.  
Reliving Uncle Ben’s death hurt the most. He can feel the gunshot wound and the life draining from his father figure. The terror and the shock of the whole suddenness of it all, coalescing in one giant ball of hurt in his gut. The fire rages on through his body, his blood is pumping and Peter can feel it rushing and pushing underneath his skin.  
Everything is icy hot. With each lick of flame, a shot of ice flows through his veins. Each memory is worse than the last. It's building, building, building, until all Peter knows is heat and freezing cold death.  
“Peter! Peter! Get up! Lovely are you okay?” Hands grab him. Pull him from the chair. He can feel the concrete beneath his hands chilling him, reminding him of the cold cement beneath Ben’s body.  
“Gwen?” There she is. Standing in all of her delicate beauty. She was saying something but Peter doesn’t care. He wraps his arms around her. He can smell her lavender shampoo. He feels the ticklish brush of her long hair against his cheek.  
“Yes silly, it’s me. You do remember me right?” Her laugh is like the jingle of bells, her voice like heaven.  
“Of course I do... I could never forget you. How- How are you here?” Unnoticed tears trailed down his face.  
“I’ve come to talk to you, is all. After, you know, you killed me.” Fear. Fear and dread. Peter was falling. He watched in terror as the ground came closer and closer. He watched the windows of evacuated office buildings pass by him. He could feel the support of his webs catch him, but he was falling too quickly and the webs couldn’t hold all of him. Maybe he should curse gravity or the webs. Or maybe he should curse himself.  
His head snaps back, bouncing away from the webbing and cracking against the sidewalk warmed beneath the sun.  
“You did this Peter. You killed me. Did you know? Did you know that had you just done your job and caught my head instead of my neck I would have survived?” Gwen stalks around his body, moving like a vulture underneath her meal. She scoffs.  
“But instead I died. You let me die, Peter. _You_ did. Then you left me. I’m forgotten. When was the last time you talked to my mother? You're _afraid_ Peter. Afraid of what she’d say after all these years. So you left her. You left me. And now I’m forgotten.” She laughs, not like bells, but like grating metal. Like two cogwheels stuck and pressing against each other, building up tension only to release suddenly at full force.  
“You forgot me and _fell in love_. Twice! First with my friend Mary Jane. She’s so beautiful and fun, how could you not? And you both forgot about me. But you couldn’t handle her. She was too happy. Too happy and too healthy. You couldn't handle her moving on quicker than yourself.” Gwen stood back. She tilted her head inquisitively at Peter's lifeless form.  
“And then you fell in love with that man. He’s so broken and hurt, you just love killing yourself, huh? You needed a fixer-upper. Someone who can suffer with you. But why _are_ you suffering Peter? That Wade Wilson guy doesn’t know- because you won’t tell him. Just like me, you won’t tell him who you really are. You’re Spiderman, Peter. And Spiderman is a killer.”  
***  
Peter Parker is a truly marvelous specimen, Andrew Faust was willing to admit. His intelligence and tenacity were intimidating, yet, so absolutely naive. His belief in the common good is simple and so morally pure, Faust almost feels bad exploiting it. But he doesn't feel bad. In fact, his bank account is practically begging him to ruin Peter more. His boss is pleased with their progress, and now, here they are, reaching the last leg of the race. Soon Peter will be ready to leave.  
Faust looked up from his notes to watch Peter in the chair. After twelve sessions, he’s beginning to fall apart completely. His screams have become commonplace in this basement, Faust almost forgets that it's happening. He chuckles at that. The biologists sitting around him continue to scribble feverishly, marking down even the most minute changes from Peter. They watch his vitals and his actions like a tiger stalking their prey. It's fascinating. Of course, Faust has no clue what they’re really watching. Peter is always screaming, nothing seems particularly different to him, while Peter is constricted to the chair.  
Out of the chair is different. He’s begun gaining weight again, considering the fact they restricted his diet before, only to mimic the symptoms of the fake toxic gas. Superheroes will fall for anything these days. Stick on a black suit and paste a few tacky bird symbols on the walls and they’ll believe anything you say.  
“Mr. Faust, look.” Faust's gaze shifted back to Peter, who was stock still in the chair. Despite the electricity being sent through his body, he seemed almost… calm. If his heart monitor wasn’t steady, Faust would have presumed Peter dead.  
“Pull up the feed.” Dr. Shay quickly flicked a hologram monitor towards him. The screen showed a visual representation of Peter’s brain activity. It wasn’t fully accurate but for the most part, Faust and the others can observe what Peter is thinking. Or in this case, what he’s not thinking.  
“Is it on?”  
“Yes sir, brain activity is normal, he seems to be attempting to avoid any memories by simply, visualizing space.” Peter was floating, stars and planets drifting past him.  
“Well, this is perfect.” The onlooking scientists stopped writing to listen.  
“It is, sir?”  
“Yes. It’s perfect. He’s broken down, now, we can build him back up. Do we have the false memories ready?” Dr. Shaay nodded, a smile stretched his face lightly.  
“Now, the real fun begins.”  
***  
Peter startled awake with surprising clarity. He wiggled his toes and stretched his arms feeling the aches and pains from the past few days. (weeks? Months?) He needs to find Faust and tell him that he’s feeling better. Peter’s not sure what happened last night but whatever the doctors did, it worked. Despite the minimal nutrition in his body from his past lack of appetite, He can feel the power surging through his body, almost like the first day after the spider bite.  
The metal of the bed frame collapses under his hand when he stumbles up and a light chuckle flows freely from his lips. The urge to dance crosses Peter's mind briefly. The alarms blaring and the room being bathed in a crimson hue puts a momentary stopper to his miniature celebration.  
He can hear them coming. They’re running, a few floors up. The stomping of the guard's steel-toed boots reverberates painfully against Peter's skull and bounces between his ears. A memory of his apartment flashes unwarranted across his vision from his rescue. The sense of Deja Vu has Peter cringing internally.  
But then he hears it. The unmistakable rattle of gun shells dropping to the linoleum flooring and the passing of a blade through a sheathe. His stitches pull painfully in his haste of reaching towards the door. Despite knowing it’s no use, despite knowing he’s in a SHIELD compound and safe, the desire to see him again is pushing forward, screeching and clawing at him like a chained beast.  
“Wade!” Peter's voice cracks, It's barely above a whisper. He can hear the minuscule pause in the swinging of the blade. Unnoticeable for most but after living and fighting for years next to the unruly mercenary, he hears it.  
There's someone else with him. maybe two or three others, but it doesn't matter. Peter can hear Wade’s joyous laughter. the kind he makes after defeating a difficult boss level in a game, or after coming home from a tiring mission that ended successfully for once. it almost brings tears to Peter's eyes and you can't help but join in.  
"oh baby boy you have no idea how long I've been searching to hear that again!" Wade gives off a triumphant holler as a few more gunshots can be heard. " we're almost there, just need you to hold on for a few more moments then I'm going to kiss the shit out of you.”  
Peter laughs again. it could be because his power has returned to him or maybe it's just the idea of seeing his lover's face, But he already sounds healthier.  
"Hey, Wolverine why don't you get your lazy ass up and help Spider Babe open the door, we’re not getting any younger here.” Footsteps approach the door and Peter takes a few steps back. the screeching of metal on metal reverberates across the small room that Peter has called home the last few days.  
"Hey, give me a hand here." Frost covers the door and a chill settles through the room and with a loud crash the door caves in and falls to the ground. as the dust settles Peter can see through the haze of gunsmoke and red emergency lighting Wolverine, Colossus, and Iceman. scratches and grazes litter their skin like ink blots on a page. behind them, standing tall, like a scene straight out of a comic book is Wade. Blood drips from his mouth and stains his suit a more fiery red. the smile that graces Peter’s face pulls a collective sigh from the ragtag group of heroes and vigilantes. It was like nothing bad ever happened at all.  
***  
Their escape out of the building went by less smooth than Peter’s entrance a few days prior. Which, he has now learned, had been at least eighteen days, give or take travel time. The Avengers didn’t have the authority to leave the country on such a low priority mission, to the disdain of Deadpool. Wade had shown up at Xavier's mansion- “Screeching like a bat out of hell.” Logan added gruffly. The three heroes agreed to join Wade on his search for Peter and the hunt began. Wade explained that his apartment had been left in shambles, the whole building a walking crime scene- “It was like the prom scene from Carrie! Or like when I get too excited while busting open a door to a trafficking ring!” Peter felt a bit sick after hearing that.  
Colossus was busy flying the jet and Iceman treated Peter’s wounds as Wade continued his story. His hand was clasped tightly in Wade’s. Peter didn't mention the light tremor coming from the larger man, they’ll have time to talk alone once they land safely back at the mansion.  
“Alright, enough Wade. He can hear the rest once we get back and he has had some rest.” Bobby mumbles softly, deft hands wrapping gauze around Peter’s sternum where the large incision from Dr. Shaay is visible.  
Wade’s mask twitches and a visible frown curves along the seams as he eyes the wound. “Yeah man you’re totes right, I could use some ‘R and R’ myself now that I think ‘bout it. Whatcha think Peteypie? Down to catch some Z’s?” Peter gives Wade’s hand a light squeeze and rubs circles into his palm. Wade's frown loosens slightly.  
“Yea, I don’t know the last time I got a good night’s rest. I feel like I could sleep for years.” And it’s true. The last almost month had melded together in Peter’s head from restless sleep, malnutrition, and toxins free-flowing through his veins. A couple of hours of peaceful dozing against his boyfriend’s chest sounds like heaven to the spider mutant.  
“Well, I’m just about done here. When we get back to the school we can actually dress your wounds. My piss poor first aid can only help so much.” Wolverine huffs lightly from where he’s sat across the plane and Wade strokes a finger down Peter’s jutting cheekbones.  
“Thanks, guy’s, really. I.. don’t know how to thank you enough.”  
“Well, I can think of a few ways Spider Babe,” Wade smirks and a chorus of laughs and groans and bickering lulls Peter into a dreamless sleep.  
***  
The next few days pass in a blur. As if Peter was watching a play by play of his recovery. Professor Xavier attempts to sift through his memories of his hold in the fake SHIELD facility. He remembers Wade’s strong grip on his shoulder as he numbly recounts so very little.  
The search for who could be behind this little project is a never-ending list of Spiderman’s many enemies. Too many crazy scientists and power-hungry villains. Peter watches vacantly as Wade and Logan become increasingly agitated at their fruitless efforts.  
The nightmares are the worst part, Peter thinks. Flashes of bright incandescent lights, sharp razor-like tools, and a bone-chilling chair. He wakes up half the building each night. He can hear them all groaning and shuffling in their own rooms as Wade attempts to soothe Peters wailing. He’s never been much of a crier, but the last few nights have been particularly tiresome.  
“What’s going on in that crazy little head of yours Petey-Pie?” Wade whispers softly after another round of shaking sobs and sleepless nights.  
“I,” Peter takes a stuttered breath before continuing, “ I’m not sure, to be honest with you. It’s horrible. Gruesome. And I know it’s Bad, like capital “B” bad. But every time I wake up… I just can’t place it. It slips through my mind and I just can’t get a grip on anything.” Wade strokes his thumb gently across Peter’s cheekbones, wiping away stray tears. He guides his hand soothingly through Peter's tangled mop of hair and hums in thought.  
“Grouchy and I are arguing. So are white and yellow. White and I think this might all tie in with Weapon X.” He lets out a shaky breath himself and momentarily stops his stroking to re-arrange his thoughts.  
“Mr. Metal-For-Bones and yellow think it’s stupid. But it’s not! I know I’m crazy and don’t think things through most of the time,” Peter side-eyes him and Wade chuckles lightly, “okay, almost all the time. But! I have this gut feeling. And I know I can trust my gut. She’s never lied to me. Well except for that one time I was craving chili dogs and honestly, no one should ever trust their gut if it’s telling you to eat chili dogs.” This time Peter laughs and Wade joins in. They shift closer to each other in the bed, letting their thoughts settle until Peter's breath has evened slightly and Wade starts his hair petting again.  
“I don’t know who it was Wade. I wish I could tell you. I wish I could remember why they cut open my chest and I wish I could tell you why I dream of horrible things and forget them the moment I wake up.  
“But more than anything I don’t know if you’re right, or if Logan’s right. In theory, it would make it easier to track them down and figure out how they got my personal information but I hope you’re wrong. There’s a lot of evil out there Wade, but Weapon X is one of the cruelest evils out there and I don’t want to even think of why Weapon X would take me.”  
Silence stretches across the room, thick like a foggy morning before the sun has fully breached the horizon.  
“You know babe. Even though you’ve gone through some wild shit the past few days. You never stop surprising me by how much you think.” Another laugh graces Peter's lips and Wade can’t help but taste it against his own.  
“It’s a little scary, to be honest,” Wade whispers when they break away. “How you’re always thinkin’. I used to be afraid that you’d catch me in a lie when we first met. That that noggin’ of yours would figure me out like I’m a puzzle. ‘Still think that sometimes.  
But now I’m afraid you’ll think yourself right into trouble. You’ve got too many thoughts, too many puzzles you’re working out up there and I’m afraid one day one of the puzzles will have a missing piece. One you can’t find.”  
“Wow Wade, did you just psychoanalyze me?” Wade shoved him lightly with a huff and a “shut up I was trying to be serious!” And soon they both drift lightly into a soft slumber, curled around each other.  
***  
The conversation held between the two lovers the night before did nothing to ease the steadily growing panic settled in Peter's nerves. Every loud noise or resounding laughter from further down the halls strikes Peter with overwhelming anxiety. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, his spidey sense keeps screaming “danger!” Every chance it gets. He's really getting tired of suddenly hopping onto the ceiling every time a gaggle of students happens to walk down the same corridor as him.  
He decides to talk to Logan, to, at the very least, settle his thoughts about Weapon X. He finds him lounging in the large kitchen of the mansion. The walls seem slightly sticky and the floors remind him of the “SHIELD” facility. He sort of wants to vomit.  
“Hey, Logan? Can I talk to you for a bit?” Logan’s head was hanging over a steaming mug of presumably black coffee. The pot sits a few inches to the left of his elbow and it rattles a bit when Logan lifts himself up to look at Peter.  
“What about? I’m busy.” He answers shortly before taking a huge gulp from his mug. His face twists uncomfortably for a moment before it settles.  
“This is about Weapon X isn’t it?” Logan’s sharp glare leaves no room for beating around the bush.  
“Uh, yea… yes. Wade seems to think that they took me, but you-“  
“But I don’t think it is. I’ve raided a lot of their compounds. I’ve seen their ways. Experienced it myself. And everything I saw at that disgusting excuse of a hospital aligns perfectly with them. From your kidnapping to your escape. Everything is perfectly ‘Weapon X.’”  
“So then why do you think it’s not them? How is it different?” Logan scoffs with the wisdom and pain of a man who lived too many lives and drank too many drinks.  
“The difference is you. Just you. You were the only known captive. We found no one else other than the sorry asses who worked there. Weapon X doesn’t go out of its way to steal a well-known hero of the streets of New York just to see how he ticks.  
“They take the forgettable and the unknown. They’re too pussy to take someone with such a big spotlight.” Another monster sip of coffee passes Logan’s lips and he sets the mug into the sink. Nothing but the dredges left at the bottom. Peter stares at them, swirling in the cup lazily before they settle in a ring around the edges.  
“Who else. Who else would have the money and the… the desire to do things like that to me. Weapon X makes sense. They have a motive. They could have taken me to hurt Wade. It would explain why I was all they had. Revenge is always a possibility.” Logan nods thoughtfully before shaking his head.  
“He said the same thing. Deadpool seems to think that the whole world is out to get him. Can't blame him, the shit he’s seen, but he’s always been so full of himself. The world may be out to get him but it doesn’t revolve only around him.” And that’s all that’s spoken between them. Logan excuses himself with a grunt and a tilt of the head before he stomps out. Peter is left only with his thoughts yet again.  
By the time Wade has made it down to the kitchen, Peter has been joined by a few others. A few of the older students linger near the doorway, waiting for their afternoon classes. None of them bat an eye at Peter's disheveled state or Wade’s horrific appearance. It’s a bit uplifting, in Peter's opinion. The mansion houses so many truly unique individuals that a literal torture victim and a man covered in constantly shifting tumors could be seen as ordinary in comparison to some of the others.  
Wade’s talking a mile a minute, as he usually does in the mornings. The subject of the morning is “mushrooms! Why did Mother Nature make them so phallic anyways?” Which is the kind of nonsensical topic anyone would expect from Wade at this point. It’s arguably domestic.  
He ruffles Peter's hair and makes some snarky comment to the kids about how “slacking off leads to hard drugs and kinky sex, and you guys are too young to be like me.” Which causes a mild uproar of disgusted groans before they soon scatter off to other more private areas.  
As Wade throws a few bacon strips onto a pan and throws said pan in the oven- “which is totally the only right way to cook bacon you fucking psychos!”- Angel and Cyclops walk in. They’re discussing some sort of mission, deciding on how to properly build the right team for it. And Peter wasn’t paying them any mind, really. He’s used to the hero talk and honestly, it gets kind of boring after a while.  
“I’m coming,” Wade says suddenly, bacon bits flying out of his mouth in his haste.  
“Don’t make cum jokes in the kitchen Wade–“  
“No, dammit not _cumming,_ ‘coming.’ Like with an ‘O.’ I’m joining you guys. Put me on your team.” Peter looks up from his hands to stare at Wade incredulously.  
“You’re what? Wait, hold on what’s going on?” Angel hides a cough into his fist while Cyclops rubs his eyes under his visor.  
“There’s no way in hell I’m letting a bat shit mercenary join us,” Scott says, notable distaste in his words.  
“Hey, I’m not a mercenary anymore! Mostly.. right Petey-pie? Tell Laser Gun I’m all nice and not unaliving people anymore!”  
“Dude you killed like 50 people a week ago.” Angel retorts.  
“Yeah, but it was to save my heartmate! My partner in crime, my locked away prince needing to be saved by his dashing, red and black-clad, katana-wielding knight!” Wade argues back.  
“Did you just call me Laser Gun?”  
“WADE! please, what mission are you going on?” Peter yells, glaring harshly at the trio. They are absolutely dramatic. And dumb. Totally and entirely dumb. They don’t mesh well. Wade’s almost diabolical innocence poking fun and pressing buttons. Scott’s indescribably short temper raging into annoyance. Both being instigated by Warren's mischievous disposition.  
“They found another weapon X base and they’re planning on totally busting open that bitch!” Wade exclaims, his hands make tiny explosions in front of his face to mimic his retelling.  
“We’re not “busting open” anything,” Scott growls over Warrens increasing cackles. “We’re rescuing some possible mutants and confirming another target. It’s unimportant that it’s Weapon X.”  
“Bullshiiit!” Wade exclaims. “I want a piece of the action, let me join you! Pretty please with taco sauce on top.” Wade drops into an over the top pout, grabbing Scott’s shoulders and shaking him roughly.  
“Look Wade, as much as I’d absolutely _love_ for you to join us,” Scott spits out, reaching his wit's end, “Professor Xavier has made it abundantly clear that you two are _not_ allowed to join us.” Peter clenches his fist and looks away from the conversation, well aware of why they can’t be a part of this mission.  
“We can tell you all about it when we get back, yea?” Warren asks gently, his playful smirk still gracing his lips. Wade lets out a loud groan and Peter crosses his arms before nodding in agreement.  
“Thank you.” Scott exhales, his shoulders slumping in relief.  
“Yeah whatever, just don’t expect me to be happy about it.” Wade frowns, his brow bones scrunching up and pulling his skin taut in frustration.  
“Come on Wade, we can go outside and throw rocks in the pond or something.” Peter supplies, trying to get his mood back up. Wade groans and grabs Peter's hand roughly.  
“Fine but only if I get to throw some at Colossus.” Peter answers in a sigh and slight shake to his head, the slight smile on his face giving Wade all the answers he needed.  
***  
“-wake up!” Peter is startled awake by Bobby’s insistent shaking. Wade jolts up next to him and a gun is pointed at Iceman’s face before he even realizes what’s going on and who decided to wake him at this godforsaken hour. Peter notices the shaking doesn't stop, despite Bobby now crossing their room to open their closet.  
“You need to suit up. They’re here. No time for questions, we need to get the students to safety. They followed us here, we need every hand on deck.” A loud explosion bursts through the air and the picture frames littering the walls rattle. Wade’s up immediately, whispering to himself. His gun slid back into place underneath the pillow. He’s arguing with the boxes. It only takes a moment for Peter to join them. Bobby’s already in his X-Men suit.  
“Peter. We have to get you out of here, evacuate with the others. Professor X said they're here for you so our main goal is to get you as far away from this place as possible.” Bobby commands.  
“Wait what? No! I’m staying to fight.” Peter and Bobby flinch when another explosion is heard. Wade’s katana’s slide out of their sheathes audibly as he prepares to protect the school.  
“Petey-Pie, Love of my Life, I know you want to be a hero, but right now you need to leave. They’re here for you-”  
“Exactly Wade! They’re gonna destroy the mansion unless I go out there and help!” He’s not sure why everyone is so against him fighting, this is his job, he risks his life on the daily fighting off villains and saving bystanders. It’s frustrating.  
“If you go out there, whatever’s waiting for us will target you. Just you. Do you understand? I can’t lose you again.” A moment of tense silence stretches between the two, Peter’s hardened glare boring holes through Wade’s mask.  
“Enough, seriously. Wade, go with Peter. There’s a jet waiting for you both in the back. Logan’s gonna meet you there if he can.” Bobby exits the room as another explosion echoes through the hallways, leaving Wade dramatically slack-jawed and Peter pouting.  
“Well, I guess you heard the man. Let's go, Pete.”  
Now with both vigilantes suited up, Peter in a freshly cleaned X-Men suit, and Wade in his signature red and black, they both run through the halls of the shaking mansion. They cross paths with a few stray students attempting to escape the barrage of attacks coming from the front of the building. The couple skip steps as they descend the multiple flights of stairs leading to the hanger. The noises are muffled by the layers of concrete supporting the building above and Peter is uncomfortably reminded of the hospital basement.  
The hangar door is already lifted and as they run up the incline to the waiting jet another explosion breaks the ground. The sound of a massive battle reaches their ears exponentially. There are clouds of ash and debris painting the sky an awful grey. Metallic screeching rings through the air and crashes. Robots. The mansion is being attacked by robots. There’s too many to count, a few zip by in the sky, battling it out with a few mutants in the air. Peter can see Angel twirling gracefully in the air before plummeting down, smashing a robot to pieces with the impact.  
The bots are strikingly familiar. Nothing the X-men have seen before, but Peter has fought them before. Many times. He watches as an arachnid shaped robot scuttles across the ground before propelling itself at a few students.  
“Spider-Slayers.” Peter chokes out. Wade turns to him, his katanas still unsheathed and held protectively in front of the two of them.  
“They’re Spider Slayer’s Wade. I’ve fought them before. Too many times. How could Weapon X get their hands on these?” Peter can't help the panic rising in his chest and his throat, his spidey sense thrumming painfully against the back of his neck screaming at him to escape and take cover. “I- I thought I destroyed them all. I made sure I destroyed them all. Wade? What do we do?”  
Wade’s grip on his katana’s tighten and Peter can hear his heavy breaths escaping the mask. “Everythings fine, we might need to kick some metallic ass but we’re just gonna hop into the jet and be on our merry way, ok baby boy?” He glances back to wink at Peter. His voice sounds strained and the curve of the mask does nothing to hide his frown.  
And so they do. Once one robot had caught sight of the two trying to escape, it was like they all wanted a piece of them. The multicolored Spider-Slayers swarmed them and chaos ensued. As Wade slashed through the metal skeletons of the machines Peter jumped and flew through the air, hopping from one bot to the next, ripping out cables and pulling out glass eyes. Angel soon joins their fight, weaving between the bodies of robots and pulling them into the air. Sheets of ice cover the ground freezing their enemies in place, only for Bobby to slide by and shatter them to pieces. By the time Logan and the other X-Men have made it back to them most of the bots have been eliminated. The few left standing stopped fighting abruptly, those in the air came down to land in front of the waiting jet where a man from Peter’s past stands.  
It's all come down to this, Peter realizes. A shocking conclusion to the past two months of kidnapping, torture, and recovery. The memory gaps and the non-stop nightmares that plague Peter’s waking and sleeping moments. As the X-Men Peter has come to call his friends during his time here, surround him, the Spider-Slayers stand at attention. They’re waiting for their commander's call.  
“They’re Spider-Slayers aren’t they?” Logan asks, coming to stand next to Wade and Peter. Dirt and ash cake his features, and his knuckles are raw from constantly using his claws. Peter nods numbly in response, eyes locked on the man behind his line of killer robots.  
“And that's Alistair Smythe,” Peter whispers, keeping his eyes on the man. His body is warped and contorted, covered in a thick ever moving carapace. Sharp edges of armor adorns him, jutting from the joints and his shoulder blades. A mane of matted brown hair flows downs to his pectorals.  
“Ah, Spider Man. I was wondering when you’d join the fight. I’m glad you could make it before I killed all of your companions.” His voice grates against Peter's ears, waves of unease rolling down his back and triggering his Spidey sense.  
“You’re supposed to be dead.” Is all Peter can choke out.  
“And you’re supposed to be locked up in a basement while my _friends_ torture you. Guess we both are a bit out of the loop.” A deep laugh rumbles through his chest.  
“Well, I’ve had enough chit chat lets kill this dipshit.” Wade pulls out his holstered gun and flicks off the safety, aiming towards Smythe’s head. The spider Slayers move instantly, surrounding their boss in a protective circle.  
“Now, I wouldn’t do that. Poor little Peter wouldn’t like another murder on his hands would he?” Smythe chuckles from behind his guard.  
“It wouldn’t be on his hands. It would be on mine, and I’m more than happy to take care of a bitch like you.” Wade’s hand is steady, pointed dead center and waiting for an opening.  
“Mhm, I see. Reminds me of a death from Peter's past ya know? His uncle?” Peter stiffens, “he’s spent years convincing himself that it wasn’t his fault. But he could have stopped that petty thief. And poor Uncle _Benjamin_ paid the price.” The name echoes harshly through Peter's head.  
It was like being dropped thousands of feet into the icy water. The crashing of waves overhead kept him under, choking and gasping as he slipped further and further down. Distantly he can hear Wade shouting. Begging him to get up, to reach the surface. His world’s caving in with each roll of the tide. Sparks of light flash across his eyelids as he clenches his jaw. An aborted scream escapes Peter’s lips, barely above a whisper. He can feel the chains again. The collar digging into the flesh of his neck, and the straps holding him tightly to the examining table. The scalpel digs its sharp blade back into Peter’s stomach as he claws at his eyes. He can hear yelling, but the water above him keeps it muffled and distorted.  
Never before has Wade felt such an immense and all-encompassing fear. He made it his life goal to never see Peter hurt. To never see him so absolutely gone, and lost, in his mind. Wade can’t help but fall to his knees with Peter. A full-body tremor wracks through Peter and he whines when Wade tries to pull his hands from his face. He looks so small.  
“What did you do to him?” Wade seethes. The entire lawn has been turned into a battleground, large patches of grass singed, or frozen over, or pulled from the earth. Everyone watches silently, collectively holding their breaths and waiting for an attack.  
“I did nothing but remind him of his sins. Peter Parker, the infamous Spiderman, incapacitated by words. Kinda sad looking, isn’t he?” Logan scoffs and makes a move to come closer, getting impatient with the tension and just wanting to call an end to this fight.  
“You fucking monster! I’m gonna gut you like a damn fish!” Wade wails. He raises his gun once more to Smythe’s face, ready to take his shot. A long high pitched frequency plays from a near Spider-Slayer. In the same moment the robots all pull in tighter around Smythe Peter stops moving abruptly. His arms wrap around Wade's body, effortlessly lowering Wade’s firearm, showcasing his immeasurable brute strength.  
“Don’t you get it Deadpool? I’ve won. He’s mine now, just like one of my Slayers. Ready to listen to _master’s_ command.” Smythe’s laugh booms across the battlefield, his body's natural armor creaking with the strain.  
“Enough of the mind games, Mr. Smythe. Pick on someone more at your caliber.” Xavier rolls forward towards the standoff, Peter immediately disarming Wade and pointing the gun directly at the professor.  
“Do not interrupt me! You are nothing compared to me! I control him, don’t you understand? He is mine to command and I will not have you and your useless team standing in my way!” A few snarls and yells of outrage break out across the small mass of official X-Men members and students alike.  
“I personally have had enough of your bullshit, bug boy. Also, I’m so sorry about this Petey-Pie, I’ll make it up to you I promise.” And with that, Wade snaps back his head to collide with Peter's nose. He’s expecting it, of course, considering he’s got that freaky sixth sense of his. Wade hasn’t been able to defeat Peter in a spar in a very long time. But this time is different. Peter’s and almost everyone else’s lives are on the line, and like hell is Wade letting Smythe take away his only happiness. Peter and Wade grapple for a moment, the gun fumbling between the two supers, Wade’s fast, but not as fast as _The_ Spiderman. The gun ends up in Peter's hands, and the bullet ends up in Wade’s stomach. Wade hears Professor X call out to him at the shot. The unexpected wound from Peter makes Wade lurch back, out of his boyfriend's hold. Without delay, the gun is cocked and pointed back at Deadpool.  
“I wouldn’t recommend fighting back, Wade Wilson,” Smythe audibly shifts his body, tapping his chin lightly. “We all know you can’t die but a bullet to the gut still hurts, doesn’t it?”  
“I’m used to it, you fucker.” Wade can’t help but be a little childish. The weight of this inescapable situation is pushing him past his limits. Despite their silence up until this point, white chimes in to chide Wade, complaining about there being _“a time and place for everything.”_ Which makes yellow groan in annoyance.  
“Peter listen to me,” Wade pleads, “ I know you can hear me. You’ve gotta snap out of this. This isn’t you, you’d never do this. I know you wouldn’t. Road Kill over there is brainwashing you and you have to break out of it.” His voice tilts a bit, straining on the last few words. He doesn’t move though, knowing that Peter, brainwashed with a gun surrounded by way too many bystanders, is _deadly_. Peter is visibly shaking, his face stuck in a scowl but a tremor rolls through him every few moments. The muscles in his forehead are clenched along with his jaw.  
“Oh Spiderman, I’m getting a little bored. Let’s get this over with shall we?” Smythe trills his tongue with a smirk, watching as it immediately affects Peter.  
He shoots the gun, now pointed in the crowd of people. A scream of pain washes over the crowd as Angel's body drops, blood soaking his suit and painting his white feathers crimson. Wade doesn’t delay and tackles Peter down as he attempts to fire again.  
“No! Not your friends! You’ll hate yourself, Baby Boy. Don’t hurt anyone else sweetheart.” Wade mumbles nonstop as the two lovers tumble across the field, each one fighting for the gun once more.  
Peter gets his arm free and fires once more, this time the bullet lands in Beast’s shoulder. Embedding itself into the thick muscle. Wade can hear the others shouting but he can’t, he _can’t_ focus on them. Not when he’s trying to keep his brainwashed boyfriend from murdering any of their friends. Wade knows there are only two bullets left in the chamber, but he’s unsure whether Peter or Smythe are aware and if he can get them to be fired into his indestructible body instead of the painfully mortal bodies of the others, he could walk away from this battle with another win under his belt.  
The next time Peter gets his arm free from Wade’s grip to fire, Deadpool quickly adjusts his aim at the last moment. The bullet fires towards Smythe, hitting one of the Spider-Slayers harmlessly.  
Wade’s tired. So utterly and completely exhausted mentally and physically from this battle. He can’t lose, not when Peters and everyone else’s lives are on the line and only Wade and Logan can leave this battle unscathed. He can’t let Smythe take Peter back into that hellscape of a compound they had rescued him from. He’s not sure his sanity would ever recover from such a major loss.  
With a guttural cry, Wade breaks out of the grapple, smashing down his elbow into Peter's nose. He can hear it crunch but Peter makes no move to respond to the pain. _He’s in too deep_ , White supplies. Still, Peter's body jerks back from the recoil, his head snapping back and audibly cracking against the rubble of the ground. He only has this one moment. Wade has this one opening, if he keeps holding back Peter they’ll never get out of this back and forth. More people will get hurt and _Damnit! Peter needs to break out of this asshole's hold!_ So with no delay, Wade leaps off of Peter and moves towards Smythe. His katanas cut through the metal of the robots like butter. He just needs to make it to Smythe, needs to kill him before this gets further out of hand.  
With a final slice, Wade reaches him and goes for a direct strike to the neck. Smythe blocks the attack and giggles maniacally.  
“Wade Wilson, infamous Deadpool. Have you come to fight me for the fair maiden’s hand?” Another blocked slash to the abdomen, “it seems he may be a bit too preoccupied right now, I wouldn’t disturb him.” Wade vaults over Smythe's body, using a failed punch to carry him up and over his massive form, Wade’s katana reaching across his chest with the tip pressed firmly to his neck.  
“Make it stop, now. Or I’m gonna tear you limb from limb.” Wade whispers darkly. Blood dribbles down Smythe’s chin, Wade uses his off-hand to grip firmly into Smythe’s mane of hair, pulling his head back Wade’s own shoulder and exposing the soft spot between the plates of armor on his neck.  
Blood stains the fronts of Smythe’s teeth as he smiles. “Feel free, Little mercenary. I’ve waited my entire life for this moment and I’m coming out of this on top. Before I die, can you let me see your face? I want to see your pain when I say _Gwen_.”  
The final gunshot fires, ringing in Wade’s ears and clashing with the loud silence from moments before. He can only watch as Peter's body crumples to the ground, his own gun hung loosely from a dead hand. The others must have reacted since the silence never returns. The ringing in Wade’s ears makes it impossible to know though. He can feel Smythe’s body shaking with laughter, bowing forward in its exuberance. The slice between the armor is easy and fluid, one quick moment and Smythe is choking to death in his own blood, laughs still spilling out between gags. Wade drops his body. The Spider-Slayers all power down immediately at the death of the master, not that many notice.  
“No..” he’s right there, Peters right there. He’s faking it. Can't be real. Can't be dead. His own head is deathly silent, no voices or thoughts or boxes fill the void behind his eyes. He’s empty.  
“Peter..?” No response. Not even a breath or a cough. “Hey, sweetheart?” Wade calls out, not yet moving from his place next to Smythe’s rapidly cooling body.  
“Baby Boy?” He practically choked out. A stuttered breath escapes him followed shortly but a cut-off sob. Wade finally moves his feet, one foot in front of the other like a funeral procession. Peters laid crumpled on the ground. His arm is underneath him at an awkward angle and his legs are splayed out in front of him. Blood splatters the front of his borrowed X-Men suit and soaks into his matted hair. Deadpool’s mask lays forgotten and off to the side, Wade’s gloves are tossed off with it.  
“Oh, Pete…” Wade all but sobs. His voice shakes and tears roll silently across his scarred cheeks. He pulled Peters head into his lap, the bullet made Peters right side of his face mangled and bloody, smearing across Deadpool’s matching red suit. The tears don’t stop and his breathing picks up, each breath turning into a heave, Wade curls protectively over Peter as sobs rip their way through Wade’s body. He’s mumbling, whispering, _I love you_ ’s into Peter's space. He leaves kisses all over the left side of Peter's face, pressing gently and feather-light.  
“Wade…” Logan murmurs, not unkindly. Regardless Deadpool shakes his head hysterically, his cries becoming more frequent and strained. Snot dribbles out his nose and Wade doesn’t care enough to wipe it away.  
“We have to- we have to get him inside. Gotta help ‘em. Gotta save him, Logan. I need him. He can’t be… can’t be dead.” Wade’s voice cracks on his last word, his hands are constantly moving. Stroking, petting, soothing over Peter’s rapidly cooling body.  
And despite the crowd of people, of students, of friends, Wade has never felt more alone than he does right now.

**Author's Note:**

> thx for reading!!   
> Remember to check out Zet's art masterpost [HERE](https://spideypool-art.tumblr.com/post/642505724566618112/this-is-the-art-masterpost-for-the).


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